history of Jonah," said Herries, gloomily.
It was at this moment that the girl returned to spread a half cloth on the table. Herries would rather have eaten in a less smoky atmosphere, but the girl informed him that the gentleman,--it seemed that his name was unknown,--had the best parlour, and one of the bedrooms, so that there was but little accommodation.
"Aye, aye," said Gowrie meditatively, "Elspeth is richt. It's here I'll sleep maesel. An' what's yon gentlemon daeing here, lassie?"
"I don't know," said Elspeth shortly, and with an averted face.
"He'll hae been benighted, maybe?"
She shook her head.
"He came only an hour ago, well wrapped up in a fur coat, from Tarhaven."
"Ye'll ken his name?"
"No. He refused to give his name, but said that he expected to see a gentleman here about eight o'clock. Then he has arranged to go before breakfast in the morning, and has paid Mrs. Narby beforehand for his rooms."
"It's queer," said Gowrie, handling his pipe meditatively, while Elspeth left the room to bring in the food for Herries. "Ye see mony queer things in sic hooses as these, my mon. Aye, aye, poverty maks us acquaint wi' strange bedfellows, as Wully Shakespeare pit it varra weel."
Herries did not reply, but sat down to an ill-cooked mutton chop and a tankard of very flat ale. Gowrie treated himself to another steaming glass of gin and water, talking while his ex-pupil devoured his welcome meal. Elspeth wandered in and out of the room on various errands. Mrs. Narby, busy in the kitchen, presumably, did not present her lovely self, and the poet was also absent, probably being engaged in fascinating the unknown gentleman, in the hope of obtaining the patronage he seemed to contemn.
"And why are ye here, laddie?" demanded Gowrie, inquisitively.
"I come from Pierside," explained Herries, carelessly, "there I left a tramp schooner, on which I had shipped as doctor."
"Aye, aye, that's it. I mind ye studied medicine."
"I have studied everything," said Herries shrugging. "As you know, Mr. Gowrie, my parents left me just sufficient to provide me with an education, and a few pounds over to start me in life. I got my degree, and then began to practice in a London suburb. I failed there, and tried another, failed again and tried a third. Then I went on the stage, that refuge of the destitute, and could not make that pay. Finally I joined a gipsy ship as doctor, and have been frizzling and shivering in several parts of the world for years. Since then I have fared no better, and my last adventure was in an Arctic sealer. I left her, as I said, at Pierside, being unable to stomach the brutality of her captain any longer. Now I am on my way to Tarhaven to see an old medical friend, who may help me. That is my history, as sad as your own, Mr. Gowrie; but," this with a glance at the dissipated face, "perhaps more respectable."
"How do you make that out?" asked the other in his best English.
"I have never been a drunkard," said Angus significantly.
"It's no decent tae speak to me yon way," fumed the elder man, wincing.
"Isn't it the truth?
"Weel, ye dinna look varra drunk, I'll say that. Aye, I'll say that."
"I am not talking of myself, Mr. Gowrie, but of you. Any one can see how you come to be here."
"Weel, weel," cried the ex-minister testily, "there's nae mair to be said. Ma sin's nae yer sin, but I doot ye've a glass hoose of your ain. What will ye do now?"
"Go to bed," snapped Herries, rising.
"Wull ye nae stap, and hae a crack?"
"No! I'll see you in the morning."
"Man, I'll be gone early. It's London I'm bound for. Joost sae, tae see an eeditor aboot an article on the modest daisy."
The young man shrugged his shoulders again. On another occasion he would have been amused at Gowrie's impudence, with his odd changes from Scotch to English. But the heart was out of him, and meeting with an old friend, even so fallen a one as Mr. Gowrie, he could not help breaking out with his troubles. An overcharged heart will speak, however reticent may be the nature of its possessor, and after fiddling with the door-handle for a few moments, Herries burst out----
"I'm a Jonah, Mr. Gowrie," he cried, almost savagely. "I swear that I have done all that a man could do, to earn an honest living, but everything has gone wrong with me. I am sober, honest, industrious and,--as you said,--clever----"
"Aye," said the sage, "I'll bear testimony to that. Nae mair capable laddie ever passed through my varra capable hands."
"Then why am I so unfortunate?" demanded the miserable young man, looking up to the ceiling. "I am cursed in some way. Whatever I take up, fails. I try and try and try again. I foresee all chances, and work desperately. Yet again and again, I fail."
Facing Gowrie, with clenched hands and desperate eyes, Herries neither saw nor heard the door into the back parts of the house, open and shut suddenly. It was just as though someone, hearing the raised voice, had peered out, and then, after a glance, had retired hastily. Gowrie looked out of the tail of his eye, but saw nothing, and shook his head at his unfortunate pupil.
"It's a weary world," he said with drunken seriousness.
"The world is all right," cried Herries, "it is the infernal folk who live in it that make me hate life. Oh," he dashed his hands across his eyes. "I could shame my manhood and weep, when I think of my sorrow"--here he became aware that Elspeth was in the room gazing at him with pitying eyes. A feeling of pride made him close his mouth, and with an abrupt gesture of despair, he left the room at a run. The girl followed to show him his sleeping-apartment. Old Gowrie remained, and cried to Mrs. Narby for a third glass of gin.
"Aye, aye," muttered the old reprobate, "breeth we are an' dust we mau' be. Puir laddie, an' sae clever. Aye a lad of pairts. I doot 'tis the drink," he wagged his head sadly. "Weel, and why should nae the puir wean droon his sorrows in the flowing bowl, the which term Thomas Moore applies tae whusky. He's got nae siller an' varra little o' that is in ma purse. But maybe he has enow tae help the guid friend whae guided his young footsteps. Hech," he rose, and pondered, "maybe if I flatter the lad, he may spare a bittock. Drink! aye drink, which maketh glad the hairt o' mon. He'll be guid for a shulling at daybreak."
In pursuance of this plan, the Rev. Michael Gowrie was shortly on his legs, staggering to the bedroom with a stiff jorum of gin and water. Mrs. Narby led the way, and pointed out the apartment occupied by Herries, with the unnecessary information that the unknown gentleman, now in the parlour, would sleep in the next room.
"An' me sleeping in the tap-room," mourned Gowrie. "Is yon gentleman in bed, wumon?"
"No. He's still in the parlour," snapped Mrs. Narby, bristling at being called a woman. "He's waiting fur 'is friend, as comes at eight."
"It'll be haulf an hoor tae eight," said Gowrie consulting a yellow-faced watch, not worthy of a pawnbroker's ticket.
"Ow shud I know? Give yer shady toff 'is drink, an' cut."
Gowrie had little difficulty in inducing Herries to swallow the hot liquor. The young man was worn out, and when the drink was finished his head fell on the pillow like a lump of lead. His kind preceptor tucked him in, and cast a longing glance at his pupil's garments, lying disorderly on a chair near the bed.
But Mrs. Narby glared grimly at the door, and Gowrie had no chance of examining the pockets, as he wished to do. It was with great reluctance that he departed with the ogress, while Herries, blind to the world, slept heavily, but, alas, not dreamlessly.
His dreams indeed were terrible. For hours and hours he seemed to be flying from some dreadful danger. Along a lonely road he sped breathless and anguished. After him raced a shadow, which once caught up with him, and enveloped him in cold gloom. But out of that Egyptian darkness, he was drawn by a firm warm hand, and found himself under a glimmering moon, looking